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“How about I get you ready instead?” he asks, and an unholy smirk pleads with me to acquiesce.

Before I can respond, he’s sliding his hand beneath my skirt and up my inner thigh.

His skin is soft and smooth, and I wonder if maybe this host is an investment banker or something.

His fingertips brush over my center, and I stifle a noise in my throat.

Then he’s ripping my tights, and I’m too relaxed to protest. Without encouragement, he slides his hand beneath the delicate mesh and an exploratory finger presses against my slit. I can’t help but lift my hips.

As he caresses and teases, I feel hopeless when it’s Roman I think of. When my eyes close and he rubs a finger over my clit, it’s Roman’s large thumb circling that sensitive area, and I imagine his rough beard scratching my thighs.

“Are you ready?” I ask, breathless, needing more of the demon’s blood.

He wouldn’t be allowed in Last Drop, with his tainted product, and I’m glad Sanguivita doesn’t seem to care.

The neon red martini glass made the bar easy for me to find, even though the obnoxiously expensive rideshare driver couldn’t find the address.

He referred to the area as the Viagra Triangle, voice dripping with disdain, but with it being a holiday, I hadn’t noticed any predatory silver foxes.

Instead, I’d seen countless drunk girls stumbling down the street, entirely underdressed for the weather.

None of them had paid me any attention, and it hadn’t been hard to find my location.

This place is right next door to another bar called The Crossroads, and a wall has been torn down between the two, so I assume they’re co-owned.

The demon parts my legs, pushing them wider with his knee, before he moves to sit closer. Without halting his devious fingers, he dips forward, baring his neck to me again. If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s losing myself in a high.

So I bite.

The taste is euphoria and ignorance, and I’ve never craved anything more.

His touch becomes nuisance more than anything because when I drink from him, there’s no pretending it’s Roman anymore.

Even if that’s the last thing I ought to be doing anyway.

This man tastes like citrus, and it’s almost unpleasant.

I haul him closer, stalling the motion of his arm between us, and draw deeply from his neck.

And then I push him away as I gulp down the precious liquid.

“What the fuck?”

“Once I get fingerfucked in the back of the bar, I’ll feel like I have to leave, and I’m not ready for that yet.”

I adjust my skirt before sinking into the cushions, and the velvet fabric rubs luxuriously across my overheated skin. The room spins, and it’s all I can do to dig my fingertips into the couch so I don’t fly away.

I don’t feel a fucking thing.

I’m numb, and it’s bliss.

Although, something begins to niggle at the back of my mind, and it feels an awful lot like guilt.

Not the same shame I feel about what happened to Hale.

That’s consuming and gloomy. Until tonight, when Hale had texted me to meet up, I thought I’d die from it.

But in those few hours, my mind had reforged the connections and allowed me to pretend nothing has changed.

This guilt is new and fresh, and the moment I recognize it for what it is, I do my best to dismiss it. Remy’s face pushes itself to the forefront of my mind. After learning about Kayla’s death, I’ve been unable to stop thinking about him.

Like Roman, he takes after their mother, but his features are softer. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of facial hair, or perhaps my intimate knowledge of his brother, but Remy has always seemed cold to me. Stern and uninviting, his face is all keen angles and haunting shadows.

I wonder if it’s because of the depression or if it’s because of the demon blood.

The only other time I encountered demon blood, Roman feared I’d end up like his brother, which is likely the cause of that bothersome prodding in my mind.

But it’s an absurd notion. Roman doesn’t give a fuck if I drink demon blood.

Roman doesn’t care about me at all, and would probably find peace in karmic retribution.

But I don’t see myself becoming addicted to it like Remy was.

I don’t think I’d have the time.

A new song comes on, with the sound of a woman’s moan interjected between each beat.

The thumping bass makes me decide to move my body once more.

There’s something about letting the music guide my limbs that I’ve always found soothing.

Considering my thoughts are running rampant despite the demon blood, I know I have to do something.

When I stand, I worry I’ve made a mistake.

Each of my joints feels too loose, and my vision refuses to focus.

I’m terribly thirsty all of a sudden. I’m in a fog, and as I glide toward the bar, I feel like I’m walking on one of those conveyor belt things at the airport.

One foot in front of the other, and I’m at the bar far faster than makes sense.

Unlike Last Drop, this bar serves drinks that contain blood. There’s a menu, and AB- drinks are the most expensive. There’s a few high-top tables nearby, and upon seeing the line at the bar, I swipe an unattended glass from an empty table on my way to the dance floor.

For a moment, my old instincts direct me, and I almost don’t drink it. But the only thing I know of that can spike a vampire’s drink is already coursing through my veins. And if there’s more of this feeling waiting for me, I don’t care.

The song changes once more, and this time there’s a man murmuring in French over the track.

“God dammit,” I mutter, closing my eyes and bringing the glass to my lips.

But when I take a sip, I nearly spit it out.

The drink is layered with the blood in the middle, suspended by two clear liquids.

The top is vodka, I’m certain, and I think the bottom might be simple syrup based on the taste, and I wonder why the fuck they didn’t mix it all together.

Turning to discard it back onto the table I found it on, I crash into a body.

A very tall and warm body. I can’t breathe, waiting for violence.

Just because Roman has stayed away doesn’t mean he’s changed his mind.

I thrust my chin upward, daring him to kill me as he’s threatened so many times before.

But the man is someone I don’t recognize.

“Oh,” I say, involuntarily pouting. My eyes trace over his jawline and his very human pulse throbbing on his neck.

It beats in time with the music, and I fear I’m being pulled into a trance.

He’s not as tall as Roman, so I’m only a few inches shorter than him.

He’d be a perfect height for me to drink from.

“Oh?” the man asks, laughing. He runs his hand through short hair, and I smile. “Is your disappointment for me or is it thanks to the taste of my friend’s drink?”

He has a dimple. Only babies and movie stars have dimples, I’m pretty sure. He’s handsome in the 2010s Hollister model kind of way. Handsome in the ‘will fuck a fat but won’t ever date one’ kind of way.

That’s rarely a deal-breaker when I’m in one of these moods.

By the time I can finally form a response, I’m swaying to the music. “Both?”

“Rotten luck,” he says, stepping forward. “Maybe I can convince you otherwise?”

I lick my lips, staring at his throbbing pulse.

There’s a familiarity in the broad set of his shoulders and his thick thighs, in the trimmed beard and the large hands.

But there’s comfort in the blue eyes and the lack of tattoos, and I decide if Roman can hook up with random girls to fuck me out of his system, then I should consider doing the same.

“Yeah. Maybe,” I say, giving him an expectant look.

“Adam.” He responds to the unasked question with a lopsided smile.

I laugh, imagining the inked serpent twining up Roman’s arm. I think of every sin we’ve committed since Roman drank my blood and tasted apple memories. But this had never been Eden, so I’ll let a handsome man named Adam drag me straight to hell.